We got a new thing! Micro Rps are designed to be short, quick fire things. The rules and points are different in these, so be sure to read up on them before jumping in. Rules are important. Rules can be found [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.].

Think of it like Twitter, but less full of GamerGaters, misogyny and racism. At least it better be, banning people is such a hassle.

Jonathan stepped out from the portal and looked around him. Midgar. Or so I've been told. were Jonathan's thoughts as he wandered down the selfsame alleyway he'd originally found himself on during his first visit. The slums reminded him of the old sections of Sky City, the part-city-part-military base he'd called home before that increasingly frustrating accident. Despite all his military prowess and knowledge, Jonathan knew virtually nothing about these worlds. He'd be more familiar were he in the Monarchy's capital city, Genova, or the shielded city on Kryos' surface, Chaos. Of course, even though this particular city wasn't anywhere near the size of Genova (A sprawling metropolis that covered roughly 1/4 of Xeraxis' primary landmass), Jonathan still found it easy to get lost. It wasn't size, more that everything simply looked the same.

This particular city was a pitiful-looking place, with several run-down buildings marking Jonathan's generally-straightforward path. In fact, the only reason he'd actually arrived at Midgar was because of the rumors of work. Despite not having a ship (yet), Jonathan still wanted to make a name for himself. The more he was known, the easier it would be to get work, after all. Of course, it all depended on what he was known for. If he made a name for himself as a pirate, he'd get less appealing work and would probably get turned down for every legitimate job he applied for. If he made a name for himself as a trustworthy mercenary, however, the options were nearly infinite. Speaking of work, maybe that flyer about some shop in the alleyways would help. Reading it carefully, Jonathan turned his head to his left. Sure enough, there was the shop in question. Unless you were looking for it, you'd downright miss it, and the pilot of Shadowcat Squadron very nearly did just that. Having noticed it, though, Jonathan made his way there. The prospect of work--any work--was just too appealing to pass up.

Drawing one of the pistols from its holster, Jonathan used his free hand to slowly open the door. A bell up top rang out as the door struck it, probably there to announce customers. He really shouldn't be so wary, but this place looked absolutely nothing like the shops the gunner was familiar with. No desk, no goods, no nothing. Just displays that meant nothing to him. "Anyone around?" he asked softly, almost inaudible, as he peered around the door. Nobody in sight, so he holstered his pistol. Of course, there could very easily be someone hiding behind the cases. Jonathan had forgotten to take that into account.

Imagined Line: We are the last of the twelve Free Companie of Khatovar. We are the Black Company.

Something is seriously wrong with this place. Cat people? "Magic"? What the hell?!

He felt the new ‘customer’ approach his shops and then watched as he stopped at the entrance staring at the empty shelves that lined all the walls. It was the base reaction of everyone who entered T. Corneille’s establishment, a perverse sort of ‘how-did-I-end-up-in-here’ moment. Oh if they only knew the tall lean man thought standing back in the shadows of the shop strategically hidden and safe from all who walked through the doors, if they only knew what brought them here. For some it was easy to bring them here, just the smallest temptation of gold or power or lust would override any decision these individuals possess, some even turning to betrayal. Those were the best he thought, the ones who would murder a brother or stab their own mothers at the chance of a mountain of Gil and then once through the doors it was his turn to take over, to complete the ‘deal’ as it were.

You see he was the consummate salesman, the closer of the offer. The machine would pull them here and he was the agent who sold them on the last and final agreement to sit in its chair. He was the merchant of dreams, or the marketer of nightmares if that is what the machine showed the one who purchased an experience at its mechanical hands. He was simply the one who took them from ‘A’ to ‘B’ even if they really didn’t want to.

T. Corneille smiled as the young man had entered with a drawn gun, like if a weapon would do anything to protect him now. The tall man smiled and wondered what this one would do when given the choice, sit and see what comes or leave and wonder. He stepped out of the dark shadows and approached slowly with his hands up in a defensive gesture hoping the man would not use his gun, but not really caring as it was useless against his likes.

“Evening my friend, welcome to the shop of T. Corneille. I hope you do not intend on using such a fierce sidearm to take advantage of me.”

Jonathan shifted his gaze over to the shopkeeper. "Only if I have to." he said cryptically as he holstered the handgun in question. "Actually, I'm looking for work. Maybe you'll be able to put my guns to use." He shifted his pilot's coat aside to reveal the other Glock 25 autopistol. He hadn't been able to really find work since crash-landing in this multiverse (even if that term wasn't correct, it was the one he chose to apply). Not much demand for a military pilot unless you went certain places, and in said places, what qualified as "fighter" craft could hardly be piloted by a single person. In terms of that, Jonathan hated having a crew on his ship. Made things too complicated, all those different people working to accomplish the same general task. In his opinion, as a veteran pilot, only one person needed to be present to keep a fighter aloft, and that person was the pilot himself."By the way, I should probably introduce myself." He held his hand out in greeting. "Name's Jonathan DeLauren. I'm a pilot."

Imagined Line: We are the last of the twelve Free Companie of Khatovar. We are the Black Company.

Something is seriously wrong with this place. Cat people? "Magic"? What the hell?!